| POPULAR AMUSEMENTS. | 31 |
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Rail at him, brave spirit! surround him with foes!
The wolf’s at his door, and there’s none to defend;
He’s as “poor as a crow,” give him lustier blows,
And do not be alarmed, for he hasn’t a friend.
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Now twirl your red steel in the wound you have made,
His wife lies a-dying, his children are dead;
He’ll soon be alone, man, so don’t be afraid,
But give him a thrust that will keep down his head.
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He has not a sixpence to buy his wife’s shroud,
He “writes for a living,” so stab him again!
Raise a laugh, as he timidly shrinks from the crowd,
And hunt him like blood-hound, most valiant of men.
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The Grand Peace Jubilee, occupying the beginning of August, was
a splendid national fête; and the rejoicings and spectacles had, as such things ever
will have, a very beneficial public influence. After having due regard to the material
comforts of the humbler classes, there is no better nor wiser policy than to contrive as
much as possible to furnish them with amusements and pleasures. It diverts the unruly, it
soothes the discontented, it silences the turbulent, it gratifies the well-disposed, and
raises a good and kindly spirit in all, enjoying together the same recreations, sights, and
entertainments. Ballad writing may be
| 32 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
The “Sun,” it may be supposed, warmly defended every point assailed by the Opposition in regard to Mr. Canning’s Lisbon mission, and retorted upon his adversaries to the utmost of my powers. The rank of Ambassador was a necessary international etiquette when the Prince Regent of Portugal had signified his determination to return to
* Among the most attractive sights were the mimic fleet on the Serpentine River, and the Chinese bridge and pagoda on the canal in St. James’s Park. My friend, David Pollock, who was about the earliest efficient promoter of the introduction of gas from the invention of Mr. Winsor, the first successful experimenter with it in his own dwelling, and for thirty years governor of the Chartered Gas Light and Coke Company, was so concerned in the application, that he hastened to London from the circuit to be present at the lighting of the bridge and pagoda with this new flame. Mortifying to relate, it will be remembered that the bridge caught fire; the gas was put out happily without explosion, and every part thrown into smouldering darkness. The much-grieved governor hurried back in a chaise to the country; and on appearing in court next morning very cast down, one of his confreres wrote as follows:—
On another occasion, on his asking a friend (Dr. Marsham, the present warden of Merton College, Oxford, I believe), to take some shares in the Chartered Gas Company, then in its infancy, he wrote in answer:—
On another occasion, either the late Mr. Baron Bolland or the late J. Adolphus wrote:—
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| MR. CANNING IN PORTUGAL. | 33 |
His departure was a melancholy day to me, and yet the reader may laugh when I tell that I was somewhat reconciled to the change, not merely by having the charge of Gloucester Lodge and Garden confided to me, but, in conjunction with my ever-valued friend, Mr. (Sir Francis) Freeling, being entrusted with a commission to forward an occasional supply of genuine Southdown mutton and Aylesbury butter for the family of the Ambassador. These articles in Portugal, it seemed, were in bad repute; and health, not epicurism, rendered this minor arrangement advisable. It was also a subject of frequent mirth; for there were no penny stamps in those days to cover loins or carry legs of mutton! The Secretary of the Post-office was, however, a potential ally; and I flatter myself that a portion of our good understanding with Portugal might be traced to my services in this little bit of commissariat business; for what Portuguese minister at Colares, where Mr. Canning resided, could resist the juice of such meat, and the seductions of such English buttering?
At the present moment, when there has been such a controversy respecting
the picking of patent locks, I may mention, in connection with the General Post-office,
that in
| 34 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
A few mouths before this, the “Satirist” not having thriven in my hands, it was given up, and the “Tripod”† established on its débris, which circumstances may require a short illustration by themselves. Galignani consulted me about the starting of his universally popular and useful Paris paper, which has since taken so important a place in periodical literature, and our correspondence continued for some time.
In my private affairs one of those casualties took place, which considerably affected my future fortunes; and as my statements and sentiments with reference to such
* The first move, I remember, was a pretended drunkard staggering against the outer door, and carrying off the size and shape of the key-hole on the wax with which his palm was covered. The fellows could not keep their countenance whilst they described their tricks. It was a highly comic scene, unsurpassed by any in the “Beggars’ Opera.” † See Appendix A. |
| LITERARY MEN AND PURSUITS. | 35 |
I maintain that the uncertainties and disappointments incident to a life entirely dependent on literature, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, render that life (comparatively speaking of the talent and ability it requires and the reward it meets), to be at the best, precarious and unproductive, and at the worst (far too frequently), impoverished and wretched. All my experience tends to this conviction; and I earnestly repeat my warning, “beware of trusting to such a faithless support and broken reed.”
I allow that the pursuit of literature is apt to generate, and far more apt to give rise to the imputation of habits of carelessness, and, if you will, of extravagance and imprudence. I am not standing up as the apologist of these errors; on the contrary, I set out, in my first volume, by declaring that I was willing to point the moral of their injurious nature, by frankly showing what I had myself suffered from them, their degrading consequences and their painful sacrifices. And I would also assert, that the mere imputations so generally spread and credited, are nearly as injurious as the reality could be.
A third point of view I would reiterate, as going so far to excuse the
literary Improvident, is, that his occupations, to a certain extent unfit him for exact and
constant attention to more worldly concerns. His mind is ever prone to seek refuge from
troubles, petty or greater, in another world of ideas, which he can make pleasant to
himself, and where sorrows are imaginary and persecutions unknown. This may be very wrong,
but it is very natural; a castle in the air is as consolatory as a high-raised hope; and no
wonder that individuals fly up to inhabit the one, or cheat themselves
| 36 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
Again; the acknowledged vicissitudes inseparable from the literary career—one work succeeding, another failing, many being rejected, few accepted, and, when accepted, proving unsuccessful—afford strong grounds for the mitigation of censure and the recognition of sympathy. A season of prosperity may be succeeded by a season of adversity; and, even were this foreseen, there is not likely to be the means for providing against that reverse. There is not the Egyptian abundance of the seven years of plenty to garner up resources to meet the seven years of famine, were there a Joseph at your ear to prophesy the coming evil and instruct you what to do in order to avert its calamities.
Thus literary men are at all times less prepared to meet the strokes of
misfortune than any other section of the community. True it is, trades may fail,
professions may decline, and losses may alight on other heads, to their ruin; but none, as
a class, are liable to the same irregularities of income and unfitness for the business
struggle, or the same liability to be found wanting in the hour of necessity, the same
aptitude for self-delusion, and the same deficiencies of facilities and power to withstand
a shock, whether it fall upon them through rash misconduct or blameless accident. There is
a bond of union nearly throughout all the rest of the stirring multitude, in active
intercourse, to help each other in cases of need; but where is the help for the stricken
deer who only belongs to the communion of letters? Bare is his position, weak and
ineffectual his efforts, assistance a miracle, restoration a phantom; he is the Saint
| LITERARY MEN AND PURSUITS. | 37 |
And this is no picture of the fancy; it is the sad reality of the great majority of literary life. It is not the fate of genius, of flightiness, of thoughtlessness, of extravagance. I could, and will hereafter, name some of the most useful and laborious authors of the age, who lived poor and died in debt, though they never committed a folly or an excess in their lives. Admirably did a great man advise when he wrote*—
“In early youth I had many aspiring feelings to dedicate my life to literature, and to literature alone; but I thank God—seeing what I have seen in Galt, in Hogg, in Hood, and other friends—that I had resolution to resolve on a profession, and to make poetry my crutch, and not my staff. I have, in consequence, lost the name which, probably, with due exertion, I might have acquired; but I have gained many domestic blessings which more than counterbalance it, and I can yet turn to my pen, in my short intervals of occasional relaxation, with as much zest as in my days of romantic adolescence.”
But suppose I change my line of argument, and appeal to the thousands of learned and scientific men, the poets, the historians, the novelists, and the diligent compilers of valuable works,—every variety and description of authorship—and ask them how they have fared? What will their reply be? That most have been steeped in poverty; that a few have barely contrived to subsist; that not one in a hundred, who were without private and extrinsic resources to fall back upon, have succeeded to the realisation of
* Sir Walter Scott, quoted and adopted, from his northern experience, by the amiable and estimable “Delta,” Moir, whose premature loss we have had so recently to deplore. |
| 38 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
The fact is, that the profession of literature is neither honoured nor
encouraged in England as in other civilised countries. The Professors are suspected (and
not untruly) of being in a way of unprofitable exertion, which is likely to lead to the
curse of needing help. Such people are not courted by the majority of well-to-do-folks.
There is a sort of noli me tangere about them
which causes avoidance as of contagion. And if they are really plunged into certain
poverty, bell, book, and candle, would be too kind for them, and the sentence of
excommunication is passed. I have seen, communed with, and aided many able and meritorious
writers in both these unfortunate conditions. But even those who do not fall under the
suspicion or into the abyss I have described, are still made to feel that literature is a
derogatory and dangerous hobby. Let an eminent statesman of cultivated taste or graceful
faculties devote a vacant hour to solace himself with any production of refined or elevated
character, and the moment it appears he becomes a mark for almost general mockery and
ridicule. There is a species of infection in the mere association, and the public voice is
heard to exclaim against him for having written a
| LITERARY MEN AND PURSUITS. | 39 |
“But never more be officer of mine.” |
Employment on the Periodical press furnishes subsistence to a considerable number of clever writers, including not a few of very superior talents; but are they better off in the scale than the general class, of retail shop-keepers, traders, and decent handicraftsmen? Assuredly not; and yet without an income derived from occupation of this kind, authorship is seldom anything else but a name for beggary.
I will not, however, rest my assertions touching this vitally important literary question upon the condition of the middle-class strugglers; nor anticipate what may be the lot of my younger contemporaries, who are flourishing, as I did at their period of life. I have seen and known too much, not to warn them that there may be breakers a-head, and their school reading will remind them that it is not safe to pronounce even a mighty monarch fortunate or happy till he dies. Sincerely do I pray that their prosperity may increase and be lasting, even to the end.
But I will inquire about the most cultivated and distinguished literary
men, and men of genius of the present century, and ask if their success in life can support
the doctrine of their being adequately requited, in comparison with far less gifted
individuals in intellectual and other walks of life. Where are their bishops, and judges,
and eminent physicians, where even their deans, and rectors, their prebendaries, their
middle-rank barristers, their well-feed general practitioners? For a history they may get
as much as a counsel with a brief; for a romance, as much
| 40 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
Yet, did Sir Walter Scott, the most productive of authors, die rich? Perhaps I may be answered that his wreck of fortune was the result of improvident speculation in the purchase of land, and in building. His ambition aimed, as I believe, at founding, not a baronetcy, but a peerage; and the great wizard fell.
But did Moore, never an imprudent or extravagant liver, and largely assisted, as he was, by the sale of music and a pension, did he die rich? Courted and flattered by the high and fair for many a bright year, he finished his brilliant career in the retirement of a lowly Wiltshire cottage, and was carried almost without an attendant mourner to a sequestered grave. No doubt some one or some subscriptions will give him a stone.*
Did Campbell, also kept from absolute dependence upon his pen, by a pension, die rich? or even in comfortable circumstances? Truly his Pleasures throughout his life were more of Hope than reality. But for his connection with periodical literature, the author of the noblest lyrics in the English language could scarcely have kept a decent house over his head.
Did the witty Theodore Hook, the author of so many pleasant volumes, die rich? or was he supported, not extravagantly, but merely in a gentlemanly style, by periodical writing, to die poor?
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* Since I wrote this I observe that a subscription for a monument has been opened under high auspices; but does not seem to fill well. |
| LITERARY MEN. | 41 |
Did the ingenious and laborious Loudon, notwithstanding the vast extent of his publications, die rich, or with his copyrights in pawn?— yet he lived prudently and economically.
Did the equally laborious and instructive Maunder, who spent his days, not in luxury, but humble retirement, die rich? I do not think he could leave the amount of a tapist’s quarter’s salary behind him.
Is John Britton, the veteran pioneer to so many and such great national improvements in cathedral architecture, the opener of a wild and encouraging field for the fine arts, the able and indefatigable archaeologist before archaeology became a sort of fashion: is John Britton wealthy, or was he not the other day only, in his 81st year, much consoled by the grant of even a paltry pension?
Genius or Drudgery! The same fate attends them!
How is it with the Laureate and popular poet, Tennyson? Without his sack and salary, and a pension too, his situation, I fear, would not be one to be envied by a respectable tailor in a small way.
How is it with Charles Swain, one of the most natural and sweetest of English bards? His hands can happily be engaged to aid his head, and if the Engraver could not do something, the Poet might starve.
All are but the Dr. Johnsons and
the Oliver Goldsmiths of our times. Generation after
generation, there is only a repetition of the same course. The exceptions, few and far
between, confirm the rule. The brothers Chambers, of Edinburgh, and
Dickens, in London, are the only two who occur
to me to have done as well through literature as if their talents had been directed to
professional pursuits. Thackeray, with all his
abilities, made more money, I fancy, by a dozen of lectures than by several of his popular
| 42 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
A numerous body of authors may be cited, whose positions do not bear upon the subject—men of fortune, who have not had to make literature their staff. Yet, though they are out of the pale of dependence upon profits, it would be easy to show, that very few of them ever reaped any benefit from their writings. On the contrary, like gentlemen’s farming, the majority have found their publications rather costly. Hallam, Bulwer, Macaulay, James, M’Culloch, Disraeli, and a few others, may be exceptions; but we doubt exceedingly that such individuals as Rogers, Milman, Talfourd, Croly, Lockhart, Wilson, Procter, Hood, Murchison, Sedgwick, ever did much more than clear their expenses by authorship; and some of them not that, as their bankers’ books would strikingly prove. Yet what a mass of human intelligence and rich qualities of the mind are embodied in such a list; which could be expanded over pages with celebrated names.
Since I was connected with the press, now nearly half a century, I have read, and I have written, many obituaries of deceased authors in every line of literature; and the conclusion—the epitaph might be stereotyped—has always been, “He died in poverty, and left his family in distress.”
Pharisaical condemnation in the opposite sense, can only come from persons
who are neither scholars, literary men,
| LITERARY PURSUITS. | 43 |
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Forget my frailties, thou art also frail;
Forget my lapses, for thyself may’st fall;
Nor read, unmoved, my artless, tender tale:
I was a friend, O, man! to thee and all!
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* See Appendix B. |
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